


Buffskier. That’s it. That’s the Fic.

by pillage_and_lute



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: #Jaskier is buff, +bonus art history, Buffskier, Fluff, Geraskier, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillage_and_lute/pseuds/pillage_and_lute
Summary: Literally just cold buffskier and Geralt trying to deal/warm him up + bonus art history knowledge
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 114





	Buffskier. That’s it. That’s the Fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I'm so proud of this one, I didn't mean it to be beautiful, but it kinda is.

Jaskier had been pretty twiggy at eighteen, Geralt seemed to recal. Kind of skinny and knobbly, like a man put together of knees and too many meals from food that had been thrown at him. 

At twenty he hadn’t been much different, although, and Geralt was quite proud of his part in this, much better fed.

But he was…twenty-six now? Time was hard, it just lay so much heavier on humans than witchers. Regardless, Geralt thought, Jaskier was definitely no longer twiggy. In fact the word that rather came to mind was…

Beefy.

Buff, athletic, well-muscled, and statuesque clamored for attention right behind it. 

He wasn’t huge. No massive bulging muscles like some battle axe-wielding warrior from the north. Or Eskel. No, thankfully Jaskier’s shoulders would always fit through doorways, and his muscles didn’t exactly bulge. His muscles just didn’t seem to build bulkily. They just, well, built.

Jaskier had dragged him to an art gallery in some town or other, and really all the cities blurred together, especially since Geralt had tried his hardest, despite witcherness, to get blackout drunk after. Because what the art gallery had held was mostly…pornography. 

Jaskier had insisted it was art, but there had been an entire room full of statues of naked young men virtually rippling with muscles. Naked, throwing a discus, naked after an athletic competition, naked with horns lounging in a way that could only be described as alluring.

Now, though, Geralt couldn’t help but think of those statues, only for comparison, of course. Because Jaskier was undressing in their shared room in an inn as a thunderstorm raged around them and Geralt hadn’t turned quite fast enough. Jaskier had been slipping his white chemise, translucent and dripping with water, over his head. He was so supremely muscled, rippling and perfect, like the statues. 

Geralt stared resolutely at the wall, trying not to listen to his traveling partner rustle about while changing clothes.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined. “Everything in my pack is wet.”

“I’ve told you not to pack all your clothes at the top,” Geralt said, not turning around. He really wasn’t going to turn around. Not for anything. 

“And rumple the silk?” Jaskier sounded scandalized.

“Can’t I borrow one of your shirts to sleep in? My pants are dry enough but it’s bloody freezing.”

“I doubt my clothes are much dryer than yours.” Packed at the bottom of the bag or not, everything was soaked through.

“Oh,” said Jaskier, sounding so heartbreakingly disappointed. “I’ll just have to sleep as is.” 

Geralt looked down at the slim bed. The only bed. Where they would both be sleeping. And Jaskier would be in just his pants. And cold. Geralt’s traitorous mind chose this time to remind him that when Jaskier was chilly he tended to…cuddle. 

It was more like being slowly strangled by an octopus, but extremely enjoyable.

That wouldn’t do. Cuddling with a nearly-naked Jaskier would be…well. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Geralt took off his shirt. Under his heavy cloak it had been spared as much of the rain as possible, and it was at least warmed by his body. 

Witchers couldn’t get cold. It was, perhaps, the best part of the mutagens. Witchers could regulate their body temperature, in a cold environment their body heat raised, when it was hot, their skin stayed nicely chilly. It wouldn’t save a witcher entirely from sunstroke or hypothermia, but it could delay it a while.

“Wear this,” he said, proffering the shirt without looking. Icy, corpse cold fingers took the shirt.

“Thanks Geralt,” Jaskier said. Then, after a long moment, “I can’t do it up, my fingers are frozen.”

Against his better judgement, mind full of statues, Geralt turned around. Jaskier was wearing his shirt. It fell to the tops of his thighs, the muscles of which shifted as Jaskier shifted his weight. He was wet and shining. More importantly, his fingers were red and his lips were blue.

Geralt got up and crossed the room. It took one step. The room was very small. It felt smaller as Geralt did up the buttons. He cursed himself for wearing the one with buttons instead of just laces today. 

Jaskier’s chest was beneath his fingertips. Statuesque. Beautiful. And in the light of the little charcoal brazier which wasn’t really heating the room at all Jaskier was, so, so beautiful. 

Geralt was shirtless, and had been shirtless in Jaskier’s presence before, but he felt so ugly and malformed. Scars livid in the dim light. There had been another statue in the gallery. An old boxer, resting after a match, ugly with a cauliflower ear and face turned up in exhaustion. Beaten up and tired. 

Jaskier was looking at him, though, the same way he’d looked at that statue, in wonder, admiration clear in his beautiful, unmarred face. 

His lips were still blue. 

Geralt didn’t break Jaskier’s gaze as he took the bard’s hands. The shirt, only halfway buttoned in Geralt’s distraction, slipped off Jaskier’s shoulder, exposing the way the muscles flexed as Geralt raised Jaskier’s hands and pressed warm kisses to frozen fingers.

Geralt released one of the hands to focus on pressing a kiss to the palm of the other. The neglected hand trailed down his chest like an ice block and came to rest over his heart. The well kissed palm reached around and cupped his jaw.

Geralt wrapped Jaskier in his arms, feeling the lithe muscles stretch and shift as Jaskier moved to cuddle closer into Geralt’s unnatural warmth. That chilly hand was still over his heart, as if feeling for something. 

Geralt’s slow, witcher heart obliged, because Jaskier smiled at him and it skipped a beat. 

His lips were still blue.

Geralt leaned down, and warmed them with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Statues referenced in order are [Discobolus by Myron](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discobolus) [Marathon Boy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marathon_Boy) and the [ Barberini Faun](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barberini_Faun) .
> 
> Geralt compares himself to [Boxer at Rest](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boxer_at_Rest)


End file.
